Ruins
by greyslostwho
Summary: "His mouth's hot and fiery on yours, and it's everything you've always dreamt of and it's never going to be enough all at once." Angsty, smutty oneshot, set just before Harry left.


**RUINS**

**Because I don't know how to leave this alone, this is another (very angsty) take on what happened that we didn't see when Harry left. I should absolutely be revising, not writing this, so some feedback would be extremely appreciated! Relatively mild smut, hope I've managed that alright!**

**Spoilers: None, really, only Harry's ****heart-breaking soul-destroying apocalyptic**** departure.**

**Disclaimer: Still doesn't belong to me, I'm afraid.**

When he tells you, you do not know what to think. Because you've been best friends for years, he's been there for the whole of your life here; you never thought he was something that was going anywhere.

But he's giving you some sort of nervous smile, and for a moment you can't be sure whether you really heard it right, when you asked him where the professorship was, maybe he'd said New Cross or somewhere considerably nearer, and although you know what you heard really, you can't help hoping.

"New…New York?" you half-whisper, and the false, forced smile falls from his face at the pain you can't seem to hide from your voice.

"New York." He nods, as if he's trying to be firm about it, honest about it, but his voice wavers on the second syllable, almost like some of his confidence is dropping as he says the words.

"When?" you breathe, and if you don't start turning your volume up you're not sure he's actually going to be able to hear you.

"End of the month."

He's not looking at you anymore, like he can't bring himself to meet your eyes.

"That's really soon."

Well, that was a stupid bloody thing to say. It makes him lift his eyes to meet yours, but the moment he does that, you think maybe it wasn't better after all. There's so much in his eyes, and you've spent the last almost decade thinking you could decipher it, thinking you could read it, but you suppose you were wrong.

Despite that, there are a thousand things you can see in those eyes right now. Regret, pain, _is that shame?_, fatigue, and something darker, something more like…

You can't think like that, you've been telling yourself not to think like that for years, since he kissed you in a pub in the rain and all those _feelings _came crashing down on you – and nothing came of it, so you put the reins on those feelings. And you can't think about that now, especially not now. Because he's going to New York. He's walking out of your life.

Suddenly, a slight nausea rises in your throat. Because everyone who has ever meant anything in your life has left, one way or another. And you didn't think Harry was one of those people. Despite getting used to the fact it was never going to culminate how you wanted it to culminate, you'd thought he was your rock, someone steady, someone ever-present.

Turns out you were wrong.

"I have to go." Is the first thing you say in a clear, audible voice, and you tear your eyes away and turn your back on him, because you're probably going to cry, and he doesn't deserve to see that, not anymore.

Not ever.

* * *

Your doorbell goes at some point in the evening, you're not quite sure how many glasses of Merlot you've finished off; you're in your pyjamas and your dressing gown with tear tracks running down your face, so you must have had a fair bit to walk to the front door without thinking.

It's Harry, of course it's Harry, and that darkness is back in his eyes, possibly to a greater degree.

You step back, almost like you're defeated, and he walks in and shuts the door in silence, a miserable expression across his features.

He opens his mouth, as if he's about to say something, but then closes it again, as if he's thought better of it.

A number of things happen in the next few seconds.

You're about to politely ask him to leave, he's not who you want to see tonight, but the words stick in your throat for a second, almost like it'd be drawing a firm, final line under whatever the hell relationship you used to have.

He sighs, and runs a hand through his short hair, as if he's at the end of his tether, as if he's all out of other options.

And then he pushes you back against the wall, his lips crashing into yours with all the grace and gentleness of a boxing match.

His mouth's hot and fiery on yours, and it's everything you've always dreamt of and it's never going to be enough all at once.

And then his lips are trailing down your neck and you can't think anymore.

His hands are everywhere, all of a sudden, skimming into your silk dressing gown, running like hot coals across the bare skin at the base of your camisole, and then snaking up, over your skin, cupping your left breast with some sort of burning heat, and you're robbed of all breath, swinging your head back against the wall.

That's the moment you wake up to the situation you're in, and despite the fact he's leaving in just weeks, despite the alcohol you can both smell on his breath and know that you've had to drink, this is all you've been wanting, all you've been dreaming of for the last eight years. Your arms come around his neck for a second and then they're pulling his jumper from his jeans, almost as if they've got a mind of their own.

Your robe's discarded on the floor, so you toss his jumper roughly in the same direction. All the skin of his bare chest feels on fire against yours, and you snake your hands downwards. You can feel him against your thigh, and you sure as hell need to get rid of these jeans in a minute, because you don't feel like you can feel enough of him, and his lips are trailing further down, and he's pulled your right breast out from beneath your camisole, with his fingers still on your left, and then his lips are round your nipple, and you're not sure you've ever gotten quite this aroused quite this quickly, and your trembling hands find the button of his jeans.

If either of you were even slightly sober, or somewhat less desperate, or this situation had occurred for some reason other than the utter hopelessness of your days in the same _continent _being numbered, you think this is the minute that you'd have pulled back from one another and clarified that this was definitely what the two of you wanted. Because any minute now, there's not going to be any going back. Ever.

But you've both been drinking, he's leaving for New York in 17 days, and he turned up on your doorstep and forced you back against the wall without a single word, so neither of you stops. You unzip his jeans and snake your hands in, taking his shaft in your hands, and he's gasping against your chest now, gathering himself for seconds before sliding your pyjama pants down, your French knickers with them, and struggling out of his own jeans, his mouth finding the shell of your ear.

Everything's so _electric, _you can hardly distinguish how his mouth and his hands get from one place to another, but suddenly his fingers are between your thighs, creeping upwards, and then they're sliding between your folds within seconds and you just can't breathe. Your own fingers are knotting in his hair, and his lips are on yours again, tongue plunging against yours, teeth clashing against yours.

There's so much _hunger _in his mouth you've got the message, despite the complete lack of speech, that neither of you have long, that he can't wait, not now. You slide his boxers down and he's lifting you, then, against the wall, his mouth sliding down to suck lightly on your collarbone, and then he's inside you, and it's more than you could ever have imagined (and you've done plenty of imagining).

He's big, he's deep, and you're bucking against him, because he's not quite close enough. Which is ridiculous, because you don't think he could be any closer, but you're as sure of this as you've been of wanting him ever since his lips first met yours. You don't ever want this to stop; you don't ever want to let him go.

But you're both strung so high, so pent up, that time's not on your side this evening. When his tongue finds its way back to your nipple, and his fingers are rubbing and flicking exactly where you need them to between your legs, you come crashing down around him, screaming, and he's not far behind you, there's only one other thrust into you before he's spent as well, gasping against your skin.

You both end up sinking to the floor, breathing heavily against one another, and you feel the loss of him acutely as he turns his lips against yours, and scoops you up in his arms, carrying you through to exhaustedly push you into the pillows of your bed, sliding between the sheets next to you.

As your eyes drift shut, and sleep catches up with you, you hear him whisper: "You have no idea how long I've wanted to do that…"

* * *

You wake up before Harry in the end, and he's folded completely around you, his arm across your torso, his legs tangled with yours.

You trace circles on his skin after turning to face him for some indefinite amount of time, before his eyes flutter open, bleary and somehow still looking exhausted, but that darkness is still within them, and his lips are heavy on yours within seconds.

But it's morning, you've got a little beginning of a headache, and everything's somehow even more messed up than it was the night before.

"I'm going to miss you." You breathe against his mouth, taking his bottom lip between your teeth. "We never had enough time."

Something flashes behind the blackness in his eyes then, and there's a sudden unprecedented strength in his grip on both of your arms, and he flips you, pressing down against you, hardening against your legs by the second.

"Stop talking." He hisses, before forcing his lips down on yours again, creating a thick, passionate silence.

* * *

That's what your relationship's like, for the grand total of two weeks you have together. You don't talk about anything, though that's mainly Harry, he's found the most effective way of making you shut up, and after a few days, after a few romps between the sheets, you figure it's easier like that, really. Because he's still going to New York, nothing's changing, and where this might have had somewhere to go if he'd been staying here, it doesn't have any time anymore, and you suppose all this is really about is _wanting _one another, for the short amount of time you have left.

Neither of you say a word, his last night in the country. He has you screaming more than once, and his mouth finds every crevice of your body, but neither of you say anything.

Because you don't really know what there is to say, and you're both somewhat scared of what the other one might say.

So he leaves, like he was never in your life, never in your bed, and never, although you didn't let him know, in your heart.

And you haven't appreciated the phrase _broken heart_ until Harry leaves the country without looking back and there's an indescribable pain in your chest that you don't seem to have a reason for.

He's gone, and he isn't coming back, like the last few weeks hadn't meant anything.

* * *

"_How are you getting on?"_

You take a deep breath, a thousand words you're never going to say catching in your throat. "_Fine."_

"_I'm sure it's been difficult without Harry."_

And Leo didn't even know the half of it.

"_Who's Harry?" _you half whisper, like if you pretend hard enough it isn't ruining you, it won't be ruining you anymore.

FINIS

**Apologies for the angst! Hope the smut's alright, it's the first smut I've written, so I'm very nervous about it! I'd love a little feedback, if only a few words, constructive criticism welcome!**


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